


Like a House on Fire

by lawatsonholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Firefighter AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-07
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-25 19:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawatsonholmes/pseuds/lawatsonholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's getting hot in here (bad pun is bad).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lovely and wonderful Rosalia and Valeria (anarmydoctor and valeria2067) who thought a John-as-a-firefighterAU would be, you know, really hot. Also, thanks to Mazarin221b for her excellent beta skills. Title comes from a southern US saying, "They get along like a house on fire."

“Oi, Watson!” A quick, stinging slap to the arse jolted John from a fitful sleep. He groaned and turned his head to gaze bleary-eyed at Sawyer’s cheeky grin.

“Fuck you,” he said and buried his face into his pillow.

She laughed. “Not now,” she said, “I’m starving, and there’s free food in the kitchen.”

“Is that why you’re annoying me?” John mumbled.

“Yes. Now get up and come eat.”

John shook his head and burrowed further into the pillow.

Sawyer shoved John’s legs over and perched next to him on the tiny twin bed. “Come on, John, you’ve got to eat.”

John thought about rolling over and ignoring her, but the sincere concern in her voice stopped him short. He raised his head and looked at her. “Sarah, I need sleep more than I need food. We only got in a few hours ago and—”

“I know,” she interrupted, “Morrison told me there were four shouts last night.” She ran a hand through her tangled ponytail. “Rough one, huh?”

“Mhmm.” John sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Three weren’t serious, but the last was an electrical fire. Seven story death trap, practically crumbling. Thirteen occupied flats. We managed to get almost everyone out except for an old man on the top floor—smoke inhalation got him before we could.”

She stroked his arm. “I’m so sorry, John.”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “What are you doing here? I thought your shift didn’t start until tomorrow morning.”

“It doesn’t. Jan called and said she’d made some food to send to the station, and she asked if I would help bring it in.”

John nodded. Morrison’s wife was determined her husband and his colleagues would never go hungry. She was forever sending something over—spag bol, lasagna, even once a pork roast with potatoes and carrots—and John couldn’t say he didn’t appreciate it. Many times Jan had provided him with his only meal for days at a time. And it didn’t hurt that she was a damn fine cook.

Sawyer nudged his legs with a hip. “Come on. It’s shepherd’s pie.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. I’ll be right there.” John yawned and waved a hand to indicate she should go on without him. She frowned but rose from the bed and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

John scooted to the edge of the bed and ran his hand over his head to flatten his hair. He tucked his t-shirt in again—looked like he needed to add another notch on his belt to accommodate his recent weight loss—and straightened the legs of his heavy, industrial-grade trousers. He didn’t want to go downstairs, but he really didn’t want to go back to sleep, either. Too many nightmares soaked with blood and heat, so much red he sometimes felt trapped inside his own heart, thumping and pumping so hard and loud the noise filled his brain until he thought both organs might explode.

John’s mobile buzzed in his pocket, distracting him from his morbid thoughts. He fished it out and glanced at the screen. A text from Mary: Dinner on your next day off? John replied quickly in the affirmative, picked up his boots from beneath the bed, and pulled them on.

When John reached the kitchen, he saw Jan juggling heaping platefuls of food. He grabbed two, and she gave him a grateful smile as she followed him into the dining hall. Morrison, McCaffrey, Wilson, Jones, and Sawyer were gathered round one of the long tables discussing the previous evening’s call-outs. John slipped the plates in front of Sawyer and Jones then returned to the kitchen to fetch two more. Once the food had been distributed and John had convinced Jan to join them, he tucked in and listened to Morrison describe the wrecked building from last night.

“How someone gets away with allowing people to live in a place like that, I’ll never understand,” Morrison grumbled around a mouthful of shepherd’s pie. “Stanley really needs to have the Board crack down on those places.”

“Won’t help,” Wilson said and pushed his blond fringe out of his eyes. “Owner’s probably someone wealthy and well-connected. Always is.”

John nodded and grunted his agreement. He lifted his fork to take the first bite of his food when the firehouse alarm blared. John swore silently and stood, nearly knocking his chair on its back. He joined the flurry of activity around him and headed for the garage, falling in step behind Morrison and Wilson. McCaffrey and Jones followed, and John heard the others on shift rush in from the rec area. Morrison’s radio crackled to life, and the dispatcher’s voice gave the address of a warehouse some four or five blocks from the station.

Once in the garage, John jerked his uniform and equipment from a peg on the wall and hurried to pull it on. Around him, the other guys did the same, and when everyone was kitted out, Wilson climbed into the driver’s side of the fire engine. As John clambered in along with McCaffrey and Morrison, he noticed Freeman readying the second engine. Must be a four pumper then.

“Let’s go!” Morrison shouted and banged his large, meaty hand on the door of Engine One.

Wilson flipped the siren and lights before pulling out of the now open bay door. Morrison had John and McCaffrey check the equipment as Wilson maneuvered through the evening traffic. Required response time was within five minutes of receiving the call, and John wondered if they’d make it; the densely packed cars heading out of the city made it difficult to get any real speed. But then Wilson spotted a break in the traffic and managed to slide through the gap until finally they were able to pick up speed enough to leave the second engine behind. Another two turns, and the engine stopped in front of an abandoned warehouse from which thick, gray smoke billowed. Flames licked at the roof, warm and gold against the darkening sky.

“Empty?” John asked as he jumped to the pavement.

Morrison pressed a button on his radio. “Status on occupation?”

“Caller said two individuals spotted going into the building but not seen exiting,” the dispatcher’s voice answered.

Morrison nodded and spoke into his radio. “Hear that? Possible occupants. Engine Two, ETA?”

Freeman’s voice came through the speaker. “Stuck at the moment. ETA four to five minutes.”

“Right,” Morrison said. “Wilson and McCaffrey handle the pump. Jones, Collins, Michaels, and Smith, you’re on the hose. Watson, you and Mason come with me—we’re going in.”

John lifted his pack and shouldered it on. As they headed for the building’s front entrance, he flipped his face mask down. It didn’t look as if the fire had reached the front of the building yet, but John knew the status of the interior couldn’t be determined until they went through the door.

John and Mason lined up behind Morrison, and with one hard kick Morrison had the door swinging on its hinges. Smoke wafted from inside; Morrison poked his head in then gestured for John and Mason to follow him. Once inside, they made a quick sweep of the immediate vicinity. The warehouse was mostly empty except for several rows of barrels to the right and some large crates on the left.

John glanced up and saw fire chase across the ceiling. The flames from the roof were burning through, and John knew a collapse was possible. He looked at Morrison and pointed upward. Morrison looked up and nodded.

“Mason, you take the left. Watson, go right. I’ll cover the back. Circle round and meet me back here in three minutes. If there’s anybody in here, we’ve got to get them out before that ceiling goes,” Morrison’s voice crackled through the tiny speaker inside John’s helmet.

John moved to the right, snaking his way through the barrels. The visor of his helmet made seeing a bit difficult, but he didn’t spot anyone in the shadows. He knew calling out would be useless—no one would hear him through the thick visor or over the roar of the fire that now threatened several of the overhead beams.

John continued to wind between the barrels until he thought he heard a faint clinking noise, like metal scraping against metal. He paused to listen closely; when he identified the direction of the sound, he hurried toward it. He rounded the final row of barrels to find a series of pipes running along the wall and toward the ceiling.

There was a man handcuffed to one of the wall pipes.

The man’s arms were trapped behind him, a set of shiny silver handcuffs securing him to a pipe running horizontally along the wall. The man jerked against his shackles, which explained the clanging that caught John’s attention.

John watched as the man kicked back at the wall and wrenched against the hold of the handcuffs. The smoke began to thicken, and the man stopped fighting long enough to take a breath that had him coughing within seconds. John moved forward, and when the man spotted him, his face twisted into an expression John couldn’t identify. There was a glimpse of relief, but it was mixed with anger and frustration. The man started to speak, but John could barely make out his words. He flipped his visor up and stepped closer.

“Lockpicks. Inside right coat pocket,” the man shouted. His voice was a deep baritone, his accent posh.

Right. Of course he had bloody lockpicks. John ignored the oddness of the situation and instead nodded and reached inside the man’s long, slate-colored coat. John’s glove prevented him from getting in the pocket, however, so he yanked it off and returned to searching for the lockpicks. His hand closed around what felt like a velvet case; he pulled it out and hurriedly flipped it open to reveal a rather impressive set of tools.

“Know how to use those?” the man asked. There was a sneer in his voice John didn’t appreciate.

“Think I can manage,” John answered. He had to remove his other glove to handle the slim instruments. Once he had what he needed, he moved behind the man and quickly unlocked one side of the handcuffs.

The man looked at John, clearly surprised. “That was fast.”

John ignored the man and freed his other wrist. “Let’s go,” John said, placing the lockpicks in the man’s hand, “The ceiling’s not going to last much longer.” Already the fire had ignited the beams in a few places, and chunks of wood and metal crashed to the ground only meters away. John motioned for the man to stay behind him and turned to head for the entrance, but when he glanced back, he saw the man wasn’t following. Instead, he had dropped to his knees and seemed to be searching for something around the base of one of the barrels.

“Come on!” John shouted. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and tried to pull him to his feet, but the man jerked and spun away.

“I need a minute,” he shouted back. “There’s evidence here.”

John’s retort was lost in the sudden splintering crack of a beam above. When the burning end of the beam fell and swung toward them, John knocked the man from its path, and the two of them ended up sprawled on the floor. Both John and the man watched as the beam swung crazily for a moment then crashed against the wall. Pieces of ceiling dropped just inches from the man’s head, so John crawled up along the man’s body to shield him; he felt the man’s arms wrap around him and try to roll him over, but John was stronger and held the man in place.

When John was certain the shower of debris had ended, he scrambled to stand. He seized the man by his coat lapels and yanked him to his feet. The man didn’t look pleased, and he opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off. “I don’t care! You’ve got to get out of here now!” With that, John bent and shoved his good shoulder into the man’s abdomen, lifting him so John could carry the bloody idiot.

John felt the man’s fists strike the spots where John’s pack didn’t cover his back and shoulders, but he disregarded it in favor of finding a way around the rapidly crumbling ceiling. He maneuvered through the barrels, ducking every few seconds to avoid falling ceiling fragments. He finally reached the door, and just as he stepped through, a huge support beam collapsed and blocked the opening.

John moved swiftly away from the building. The man in his arms still fought, and his knee caught John right in the sternum. When John felt they were a proper distance from the burning building, he dropped the struggling man, who hit the wet pavement with a painful-sounding thump. John whipped his helmet off and stared down at the man, who glared back with a scowl oddly fitting on his aristocratic face.

“Are you fucking insane?” John ground out through gritted teeth.

The man sat up, leaned back on one elbow, and swiped a hand through his disarrayed inky curls. “Determined.”

Without his helmet, John was better able to see the man’s pale, silvery eyes, and damned if they didn’t look determined. As well as completely fucking mad. The look he sent John was loaded—anger and stubbornness warred with curiosity and something John couldn’t quite name, something that made him shiver a little even under the heft of his uniform. It was like being x-rayed, and John didn’t know if he liked it or hated it. Or both.

John shook his head. “Mad,” he muttered. He pointed at the man with the hand that still grasped his helmet. “You could have died in there. Surely nothing’s that important.”

The insufferable man actually rolled his eyes. “You have no idea what you’re talking about—”

“I’m talking about fucking dying,” John cut in viciously. “You’ve got a lot of nerve getting stroppy with me for saving your fucking life.”

The man shot to his feet in one smooth movement and loomed over John, but John didn’t give an inch. He blanked his expression and gazed at the man with a calm he didn’t feel; his heart thrummed, blood pumping adrenaline through him, but he planted his feet firmly and leaned in as threateningly as he could despite the five inch height difference. He opened his mouth, and the man’s eyes dropped to his lips.

“Watson, there you are! Everything ok over here?” Morrison strode toward them, flipping up his helmet’s visor.

John sighed and stepped back. “Fine, yeah. This idio—” He cleared his throat. “This gentleman wasn’t quite keen on getting out of the building.”

Morrison looked at the man with surprise. “Prefer being flambéed, do you?”

The man hissed like an angry cat and whirled away, long coat flapping behind him. He paced for a moment then turned back to face Morrison. “Are you lot going to do your jobs and put this fire out any time soon? I need to get back insi—” The man’s words were cut off by a loud, echoing boom, and the building suddenly erupted in a series of explosions that sent flames and debris shooting upward.

John dove without thinking, knocking the man to the ground. He used his body as a shield and slung his arms up to cover both their heads as the heat from the blaze intensified and rubble rained down around them. Over the shouts of his colleagues, he heard Morrison swear and take off in the direction of the fire engines; another engine’s siren sounded not too far off.

John raised his head and looked at the man beneath him. “Alright? Are you alright?”

“Fine. I’m fine,” the man groaned. “Can you?” He gestured for John to move off him.

“Sorry, yeah, sorry.” John stood and reached a hand to help the man to his feet, but he ignored it and pushed himself up.

The man brushed long-fingered hands along his coat. He eyed John a moment before speaking. “I suppose this means I won’t be getting back inside.”

John almost laughed. “Good deduction, that.”

The man’s strange, quicksilver eyes widened then narrowed. “I needed a sample of the mud on the bottom of the barrels. You really should have let me—”

“Die? Because that’s what would’ve happened. Fifteen, twenty more seconds in there, and you’d have been crushed if you hadn’t already succumbed to smoke inhalation.”

“Yes, well.” The man cleared his throat. “The lack of that particular evidence will make this case more difficult.”

John shook his head. “Wait. Are you a copper? Because you don’t look familiar.”

“No,” the man scoffed. “Please. I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world, actually. I invented the job.” His tone was smug.

“What the hell is a consulting detective?”

The man looked annoyed that John didn’t sound impressed. “When the police are out of their depth—which is always—they come to me.”

John rubbed his chin. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“And you do what then?”

“I solve their cases for them.”

“How?” John couldn’t help the honest curiosity in his voice.

“By observing.”

“Observing?” John laughed.

The man’s eyes narrowed even further. “Yes, observing. Just as I’ve observed you’re former military recently invalided home from either Iraq or Afghanistan. You have at least one younger sibling, possibly more, and while you were growing up your parents weren’t in good health.” At the look on John’s face, he smirked. “How am I doing so far?”

“How did you—”

“Sherlock!” a gruff voice called. “Should have known I’d find you here.”

John and the man turned at the same time to see another man walking toward them. Even in the darkness, John could see silver hair and an oatmeal-colored trench coat; John recognized the man immediately as D. I. Lestrade.

“Morrison says you were nearly barbequed, Sherlock,” Lestrade said as he approached them. “What the hell were you doing refusing to leave a burning building?”

Sherlock straightened his shoulders. “I was looking for evidence, Lestrade. As unfamiliar as you and your team might be with the concept—”

Lestrade held up a hand. “Stop right there. I’m not in the mood for it tonight. Just tell me what you’ve got.”

Sherlock scowled. “Nothing.” He shot a withering glance at John. “I was unable to complete my investigation.”

Lestrade glanced at John, as well. “Ah, John. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks, Greg. You?”

“Alright, yeah. Have to put up with this maniac.” He nodded toward Sherlock.

John chuckled. “You poor sod.”

“Your friend,” Sherlock interrupted acidly, “prevented me from collecting the necessary evidence.”

“I see,” said Lestrade. “So, you’re saying he saved your arse.”

Sherlock’s lips thinned. “That depends on your perspective.”

“Perspective, hell,” Lestrade said. “If he hadn’t pulled you out of there, we’d be looking for pieces of you right now.” Lestrade reached out and clapped John on the shoulder. “Thanks, John. He’s a right pain, but, God help us, we need him.”

John waved at the insignia inscribed on his uniform. “That’s what I’m here for. Fire and Rescue, right? We even rescue poncy gits with a death wish.”

Lestrade laughed. John looked at Sherlock, who stared back, his eyes unreadable. Again John felt as though he was being x-rayed, but he never let his gaze falter. Finally, Sherlock held out his hand. When John failed to take it, Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and shook it.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said.

John’s grip tightened at the shot of electricity through his fingers. “You’re welcome, ah, Sherlock.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Holmes,” he said.

“What?” John asked.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, right.”

Lestrade shot a disbelieving look at Sherlock and cleared his throat. “Now that you two have been properly introduced, Sherlock, I need you to come back to the station with me. We’ve got some new information you need to look over.” He nodded at John. “Good to see you. Take care.”

“You, too, Greg.”

Sherlock dropped John’s hand and stuffed his own hands in his pockets. He moved to follow Lestrade, and John couldn’t stop his next words. “Do try to stay out of any more burning buildings, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned back to John and smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our beleaguered fireman meets our intrepid fire bug once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this is dedicated to Valeria and Rosalía. I hope I’ve done their John Watson justice. And thanks to my wonderful beta, Mazarin221B, for improving my writing immensely.
> 
> I took the liberty of transporting the fire bike John rides in this chapter from the West Sussex fire department to London. Also, any license taken with departmental procedure is all mine. In addition, the route John takes is based solely on information from Google Maps, so if you notice any glaring mistakes, please let me know.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Some of John’s favorite days on the job were the days he visited local primary schools for fire safety lectures. He enjoyed the kids and their endless inquisitiveness, their excited faces when he pulled out his uniform and gear. Plus, he got to take the fire bike on these visits, and John loved the fancy, dolled-up, bright red and yellow Triumph just as much as the kids did.

It was a cool, pleasant Wednesday afternoon a week after the warehouse fire when John left St. Marylebone’s, waving at the group of kids watching him roar away on the Triumph and sliding easily into the sparse traffic. When he stopped at the intersection of Marylebone and York, he felt his pager vibrate. He looked down to check the address and realized it was nearby, so he decided to head over and check things out. His shift didn’t start until seven, but since he’d only planned to go to the station anyway, he might as well stop at the scene.

John took a right on York and another right once he reached London Business School. From this end of Baker Street, he could see the fire engine up ahead and what looked like Morrison and McCaffrey standing under a maroon canopy talking with a petite elderly woman in an aubergine-colored dress. When John got close to the engine, he slid to a stop and turned off the bike. McCaffrey glanced over his shoulder and flapped a hand in John’s direction to get his attention. McCaffrey spoke momentarily to the woman then started toward John.

“Watson, m’boy, what are you doing here? Not your turn yet, yeah?” McCaffrey grinned.

“Not ‘til seven,” John answered. “I was over at St. Marylebone’s, ready to head to the station. Thought I’d come watch the show.”

McCaffrey laughed. “Watch, yeah right. You’d be the first in if you was kitted up. Just can’t stay away, can you?”

John shrugged. “You know me, Mac, I live to serve.” He nodded toward the building. “What’s this then?”

McCaffrey scratched the back of his bald head and gestured to the woman standing with Morrison. “Lady there called and said she thought she smelled gas. We just got here. Waiting for someone from the gas company.”

“I don’t smell anything out here,” John said.

“Me neither. But she said the bloke who lived in the flat above hers could be real forgetful. Seems worried he might’ve left the hob on or busted a pipe or something.”

John saw Morrison send the woman across the street. Then Morrison turned toward McCaffrey and John.

“Set up perimeter,” he said to McCaffrey. “Tell Freeman to help. Get the people out of the shop. The lady said the building next door’s already empty—tenants are out. Close off the street a couple hundred meters in each direction.”

“You think there’s actually a leak?” John asked.

Morrison shook his head. “Better safe than sorry, though. And what are you doing here, huh? Don’t you have a home to go to?”

“This is more fun.”

“You’re a sick fuck, Watson. The possibility of being blown to bits isn’t fun,” Morrison said, but there was amusement in his voice.

John grinned and slid off the bike then knocked down the kickstand. “What can I do?”

Morrison rolled his eyes. “Help McCaffrey herd these people across the street.”

It took John, McCaffrey, and Freeman five minutes to evacuate the shop while Wilson and Jones set up the barriers to keep passersby out of the way. Once they had everyone far enough from the building, they rejoined Morrison and waited for the gas company rep to show.

Finally an SUV marked EDF pulled up to the curb, and a short, stout woman with steel gray hair jumped from the driver’s seat. She approached John and his colleagues, wielding a clipboard and a sour expression. “No indications of a sudden pressure change,” she said without preamble. “We shut it off, though, if you’re ready to go in.”

“Sure,” Morrison said. “McCaffrey, you and Freeman handle crowd control.” He gestured at John. “Coming up?”

John smiled. “Lead the way.”

When Morrison opened the door, the odor of rotten eggs was overwhelming. He coughed and covered his face. “Good God, I was wrong. Must be a leak and a big one. We need to get everyone out of here.”

John stepped inside the foyer and put a hand on Morrison’s shoulder. “No, wait. Don’t you smell that? Underneath the butanethiol? Smells like decomp.”

Morrison sighed. “That’s all I need—a gas leak and a dead body.”

“It’s definitely coming from upstairs,” John said. “I think we should check it out before we panic.” He started up the steps without pausing to see if Morrison or the woman followed.

When John reached the second story landing, he could tell the fetid odor came from behind the closed door in front of him. He tried the doorknob, and it turned easily in his hand. Not locked. What kind of idiot left his flat unlocked and completely vulnerable to housebreakers? John shook his head and pushed the door open—the smell hit him in a wave that had his stomach rolling.

The flat was untidy but not filthy. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, lighting the sitting room area and revealing old, tattered furniture, piles of papers and books, overstuffed bookcases, and half-emptied boxes. John moved inside and saw there was a translucent, green sliding door separating the living room from the kitchen. As he headed toward it, he called out, “Hello? Anyone here?” When no answer came, John pulled the sliding door open and immediately saw the source of the stench.

A skunk. A very dead, very quickly-decomposing skunk cut open down its middle and spread out on the kitchen table. Along with an uncapped glass jar of clear, yellowish liquid.

“You have got to be kidding me,” John murmured and gazed around the kitchen. “Who are you?” He sighed and stepped back in the sitting room to call down to Morrison, “Not a gas leak.”

Morrison spoke into his radio. “All clear. No leak,” then called up to John, “What is it then?”

Before John could answer, he heard the downstairs door slam and a loud, angry voice say, “What’s the meaning of this?”

John cocked his head. The voice sounded…familiar.

Deep. Contemptuous. Smart accent.

No, it couldn’t be.

John heard quick footsteps thundering upstairs followed by the clomp of Morrison’s heavy boots. When John rounded the door, he came face to face with the tall, pale man from the warehouse.

Sherlock Holmes.

A startled “What are you doing here?” came out on top of John’s “It’s you.” Then, John said, “Work,” and Sherlock said, “I live here” simultaneously.

“Stop doing that,” they both said.

John clapped a hand over Sherlock’s mouth. “I’m going to talk now. And you are not.”

“Hmmm.”

John tried to ignore the flutter in his stomach at the vibration of Sherlock’s lips against his palm. “The station got a call about a possible gas leak at this address.”

“Mmhmm.”

“When we came to investigate, I thought I smelled something dead up here, so I came to check things out.” He cast a disgusted glance into the kitchen. “And found a skunk. Which you seem to have left mid-dissection.” John felt warm breath as Sherlock opened his mouth, and then a wet tongue swiped across his palm. He jerked his hand away. “You licked me.”

“You didn’t seem inclined to let me answer,” Sherlock said haughtily.

“So you licked me?” John shook his head and scrubbed his palm against his thigh. “How old are you?”

Sherlock gave John a long, considering look. “Old enough to know you liked it.”

“You—”

“Watson.” Morrison, who apparently had been watching the exchange from the hall, stepped inside the flat. “If there’s no leak, we’re wasting time and resources here. Let’s wrap this up.”

“Yeah, alright,” John said as Morrison turned and went downstairs. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “In future,” he said, looking at Sherlock, “could you not leave decaying animals lying about? And put lids on your jars of skunk spray. You know that stuff can be detected in the air at concentrations as low as—”

“Ten parts per billion,” Sherlock interrupted smoothly.

“Git,” John mumbled. He moved toward the door but stopped on the threshold. “Where the bloody hell did you get a skunk anyway? I didn’t think we had those round here.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Normally, no. But this one so happened to appear in Keighley, and I—”

“You went all the way to West Yorkshire for a skunk? So you could kill it and take it to bits?”

“It was already dead.” Sherlock frowned. “And I was dissecting it for an experiment.”

“An experiment? I thought you were a consulting detective not a mad scientist.”

“You remember.” Sherlock sounded surprised.

“Of course I remember. It’s hard to forget a bloke who’s more interested in gathering soil samples than saving his own life.” John sighed. “Just…” He gestured aimlessly. “Try not to be a pain in the arse anymore, hmm?” He started down the stairs.

When John reached the foyer, he turned to find Sherlock following him. “What are you doing?” John asked.

“Seeing you to the door. Isn’t that customary?”

“Customary?”

“I hate repetition, John.”

John pursed his lips and opened the front door. “Goodbye, Sherlock.” He stalked outside and climbed on the motorcycle, watching as the others pulled away in the engine. As he knocked back the kickstand and started the bike, John noticed Sherlock standing on the sidewalk staring at him with bright, curious eyes. “You’re still here?”

Sherlock smirked. “I told you, I’m seeing you out.”

“Yes, but why?”

Sherlock strolled to the edge of the curb next to John and stroked a hand along the bike’s glossy fuel tank. He seemed pleased with the bike’s quiet, purring engine. “Why are you really here, John?”

“Work.” John shifted and leaned forward, tightening his grip on the handlebars.

Sherlock shook his head. “Blue jeans, LFB T-shirt, leather jacket. You’re not on duty.”

John rolled his shoulders and looked at Sherlock. “Not technically. I was nearby when the call came through. Thought I’d drop by, see if I could help.”

“Workaholic.” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow then grinned slowly. “Adrenaline junkie.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

Sherlock’s grin widened. “Isn’t it?” He cocked his head and moved closer. “Interesting you should end up here.”

John bristled. “Look, if you’re suggesting I somehow knew you lived here—”

“No, no,” Sherlock said. “You had no idea. But now you do.”

John wondered if he had only imagined the suggestiveness in that last sentence. “And?”

“And…goodbye, John.” Sherlock gave a jaunty wave and swept back inside the flat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things...heat up. (The puns just keep coming here, people).

John stumbled from the smoking ruins of the building in Lisson Grove and pulled off his helmet. The sweat that had gathered along his hairline began to drip down his forehead and temples, the rivulets cutting clear paths through the soot darkening his face. He wiped a hand over his eyes and headed toward the fire engine, where Wilson and Jones stood talking with D.I. Lestrade.

“Well?” Wilson asked when John reached them.

The red lights of the engine flashing in the dark stung John’s eyes, and he blinked. “Front room’s gutted,” he answered. “Morrison and McCaffrey are with the body.” He directed this to Lestrade.

Lestrade nodded. “Burnt beyond recognition?”

“Below the waist is obliterated. Face and upper torso are almost as bad. You’re going to need dental records.”

Lestrade winced. “That’ll take a while, considering the hour. How long until we can get in there? My team should be here in ten.”

John swiped his hair from his forehead. “It’s safe for you now. But, Greg, something’s not right here.”

Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t think this fire was accidental. There are traces of possible accelerant—kerosene, I’d say. Least that’s what it smells like.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows shot up. “Arson?”

“We’ll have to wait for the inspector to confirm ILR, but I’d say yes,” John said

“Which means,” Lestrade said, “that body may be a—”

“Victim,” John finished. He shifted his feet and scratched the back of his head. “No external damage, so interior fire. But the back door and all the windows are locked.”

Lestrade moved toward the building and motioned for John to follow him. “Did you have to force the front door?”

“Yeah,” John said. He stepped in front of Lestrade and ran his hand along the doorframe. “See this?” He pointed to the splintering where a chunk of the frame was missing. “This door was locked, dead-bolted, and the security slide was across. I checked the back door and the windows, too—all locked from the inside.”

“Well, damn.” Lestrade sighed and pulled out his mobile. He punched the keys hurriedly then shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Thanks, John. I’m going to wait for my guys to get here. You need me for anything else?”

John shook his head. “We’re just waiting for the inspector, then it’s all yours.”

As Lestrade returned to the street, John went back inside the building. Thick layers of soot and ash covered the foyer walls, and the sitting room was a hollowed mess. Morrison and McCaffrey stood over the body; McCaffrey had a gloved hand over his face, and he looked positively green. Morrison kept thumbing at his nose, but John knew Morrison was too accustomed to carnage to be truly disturbed.

John joined them and stared down at the charred remains. “Bloody hell.” He sighed and shook his head.

“What do you reckon?” McCaffrey asked.

Morrison grunted and jotted some notes on the paper in his hand. “Watson’s right about the possible accelerant.” He glanced at McCaffrey and John. “What sort of sadistic bastard does something like this?”

John squatted next to the corpse’s feet and perused the scorched floor around them. “The sort who believes in trial by fire?”

“That’s dreadful, John. Going for the obvious joke,” said a low familiar voice from the door to the front room.

John looked round so fast he nearly toppled over. Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway, his unnaturally pale face impassive. He strolled into the sitting room, nodded to Morrison and McCaffrey, and crouched next to John, bumping John’s shoulder as he settled.

John started at the contact but then shifted slightly until he and Sherlock were pressed together from elbow to wrist. “What are you doing here?” John asked softly.

Sherlock gestured to the corpse, his fingers brushing John’s knuckles. “What do you think?”

The sound of Morrison clearing his throat kept John from answering.

Morrison frowned. “Aren’t you that bloke from before?”

“Before what?” Sherlock, preoccupied with the corpse in front of him, didn’t look at Morrison.

“In the warehouse.” Morrison scratched his chin. “And from that flat the other day. The gas leak.”

Sherlock glanced up. “Correct.”

Morrison shifted and narrowed his eyes. “Awfully strange, isn’t it?”

“Hmmm,” was Sherlock’s only response.

“You keep showing up,” Morrison said, and there was a hint of accusation in his tone.

“He’s not an arsonist.” The words were out of John’s mouth before he could stop them. He wondered if they sounded as defensive as they seemed.

“You know him then, Watson?”

“No. Yes.” John scratched his neck. “Sort of. Look, Sherlock’s a consulting detective.” When Morrison gave John a questioning look, he continued, “He helps the police.”

“They ask you for help?” Morrison sounded doubtful.

John opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, Lestrade came into the room. When he saw Sherlock, his eyes narrowed. “You’re already here. How did you—”

“I was nearby,” Sherlock answered, “when I received your text.” He pulled out a small, square magnifying glass and bent over the body, ran it along the remains. Then he dropped to his knees and crawled along the floor.

“What are you—” Morrison started.

“Shut up.” Sherlock turned to John, nudged his arm, and nodded at Morrison and McCaffrey. “Please?”

John cleared his throat and rose, moved to Morrison’s side. “Just let him do his thing,” John said quietly, “He’s a git, but he’s a brilliant git, so leave him be.”

Sherlock shot John a long, strange look then went back to his examination of the floor. The room was silent for a full two minutes before Sherlock stood and said, “You’ve wasted my time again, Lestrade.”

“What?” Lestrade stepped farther into the room.

“Not a murder.”

“How do you know?” John asked.

“First, the door. Locked from the inside—”

“Yeah, I knew that. So are all the windows and the back entrance,” Lestrade said, “John told me.”

Sherlock turned sharply and gazed at John, quicksilver eyes narrowed appraisingly.

“What about the accelerant?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “Not accelerant. Well, it was, but not purposefully. Ignitable liquids, actually. Alcohol.” He bent and pointed to a mass on the floor near the body. “Melted glass, amber by the looks of it, the same kind used to bottle some of the world’s most expensive bourbons. Scraps of burnt label over here.” He moved along the floor and scooped up what looked like a handful of ashes. “You can see the striated fibers, good stock, the same used to make the labels on bottles of A. H. Hirsch Reserve.”

“That’s amazing,” John said.

“So what did he do? Pour bourbon all over himself and set himself on fire?” Lestrade didn’t sound convinced.

Sherlock scowled. “Alcohol would have burned too quickly. But it didn’t help.” He sniffed and exhaled loudly. “Kerosene, as well. Can’t you smell it?”

Lestrade frowned. “John said that, too.”

Sherlock, the corner of his mouth ticked up faintly, glanced at John. “Indeed.”

“So, alcohol, kerosene?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock reached for what was left of the corpse’s shirt. “Melted cellophane here, along with bits of tobacco. He was a smoker.” He picked up one of the blackened hands. “Plastic embedded in the palm. Reeks of butane.” He stood and gestured into the foyer and around the sitting room. “Going by the state of the area—”

“‘The state of the area’ is burnt to a fucking crisp,” said Morrison. “How can you possibly—”

“Photos on the wall in the foyer are crooked, some with cracked glass. What’s left of the furniture indicates the room was in disarray. Chairs, tables knocked over, lamps toppled.”

“Could have been a struggle,” John cut in.

“And the person left after locking the doors from the inside? No, he was drunk, possibly distressed. Poured himself a drink or probably started drinking straight from the bottle. Spilled it all down his front. Then he knocks over a kerosene lamp—”

“What kerosene lamp?” asked Morrison.

Sherlock stepped over the body and bent next to what remained of an armchair. “Decorative glass here. Mostly melted, as well, but clearly what used to be one of those lamps.” He gestured vaguely. “You know, open at top, with the wick.” He looked pointedly at John.

John folded his arms across his chest. “Hurricane lamps,” he said.

Sherlock smiled. “Exactly. When the lamp broke, kerosene splashed on his trousers. That’s why the bottom half of the body burned so quickly when he lit a cigarette, dropped it—”

“And he didn’t do anything? Didn’t ‘stop, drop, and roll’?” Lestrade said.

Sherlock grimaced. “Too intoxicated. Or he didn’t care. Maybe even felt suicidal. I’m not here to figure out why, Lestrade. I’m here for the how.”

“Fantastic,” said John, and even he heard the wonder in his voice.

Sherlock spun toward John, leaned down, and said quietly, “Do you know you do that out loud?”

John felt his face heat. “Sorry.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, it’s…fine.”

“Right.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face. “We’ll wait for the fire inspector to confirm, but if you’re certain, Sherlock—”

“I’m always certain,” Sherlock said without taking his eyes from John’s.

“Then I’m sending my team back to the Yard. And you’re done here, Sherlock.”

“Yes.” Sherlock watched Lestrade leave the house then turned back to John. “What about you, John? Are you done here?”

John’s mouth suddenly felt dry. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip. “Why?”

Sherlock edged closer. “Dinner?”

“It’s one a.m.” As if that was John’s biggest concern.

“There’s a little Chinese place at the end of Baker Street, stays open ‘til two.”

John looked down and scrubbed his palm along the back of his neck. When he glanced up, Sherlock was watching John’s hand, his sharp eyes slightly unfocused.

“I’m dirty and covered in soot.” Inane, obvious comment number two. John thought he should just keep his mouth shut in future.

Sherlock reached out and stroked his thumb underneath John’s right eye. The thumb came away blackened. “That you are. Absolutely filthy.” Sherlock’s voice was soft and deep.

John exhaled shakily. He should have opened his mouth and said, “No, I’m still on shift.” Instead, he stood there silently as Sherlock stared at him.

Sherlock bent his head toward John. “I do have a shower. It’s…spacious.”

John’s response was interrupted by the arrival of the fire inspector, who swept into the room with an expression of displeasure at being awoken in the middle of the night. He launched into a series of questions aimed at Morrison, McCaffrey, and John, then made them go over the incident in detail at least twice.

When John next looked up, Sherlock was gone.

***  
Warm, wet breath on John’s neck made him tremble. He felt the stroke of an insistent tongue along his collarbone and up over his carotid artery, his pulse a flutter against the trail of moisture that continued to the lobe of his ear, where lush lips and sharp teeth nibbled playfully. Strong fingers dug into his hip, the pressure just shy of painful, and the dual sensations of pleasure and pain made him rock upward to grind against the body above him. A low moan escaped his throat at the heat and friction, as he buried his hands in soft hair and turned and stared into eyes the color of a stormy sky.

“John.” Sherlock said and nipped at his bottom lip.

John gasped and shot upright in his bunk, nearly slamming his head on the bed above him. He took a deep breath to calm his racing heart and peered into the darkness to be sure he hadn’t awakened anyone else. He heard a muffled snore from the bed to his right and some of the others on shift moving around downstairs, but no other sounds penetrated the hush of the darkened firehouse bunkroom.

He turned on his side and pulled his mobile from his pocket to check the time. Nearly four in the morning. He rubbed his face and flopped onto his back, trying to will away the erection still throbbing in his trousers.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

A week and a half. Ten days since Sherlock disappeared from the house in Lisson Grove and left John like this. Ten days of this. Ten days of waking in a shivery sweat from dreams of long, pale limbs wrapped around him, curls dark as raven wings crushed in his fingers, full, pink lips pressed against his, sharing breaths and sighs and whispers. And that voice. That fucking voice with its baritone resonance and feral purr.

What the bloody hell was wrong with him? Yes, OK, Sherlock was attractive. Maybe even beautiful. And brilliant. Clearly mad. Completely without fear. Or sense. He was also an arrogant, egotistical twat, and he made John want to…want to…Oh God. Oh. God.

“Oh, God,” he said to the silent room.

The shrill clang of the firehouse alarm forestalled John’s crisis. He jumped from the bed and grabbed his boots, shoving his feet into them hurriedly. Wilson sprang from the bed next to John’s, seized his trousers, and hastily pulled them on before stumbling through the dark to find his own shoes. John took off downstairs just steps before Wilson, and they both reached the garage as Morrison and McCaffrey finished donning their gear.

John grabbed his turnouts from the wall and quickly stepped into them. He pulled on his jacket, plunked his helmet on his head, and climbed into the engine behind McCaffrey and Freeman. Wilson scrambled into the driver’s seat and twisted the keys in the ignition. Morrison was already inside, fiddling with his radio. As they pulled out into the deserted street, Morrison’s radio squawked and crackled until finally the dispatcher’s voice could be heard.

“Possible electrical fire. Combustible chemicals also present. Address 221B Baker Street.”

“Watson.” Morrison looked at John, lips compressed to a thin line.

John dropped his head into his hands and sighed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes enemies, and John makes friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this is dedicated to Valeria and Rosalía. Extra kudos and love to Valeria, as she is partly responsible for the writing of this chapter--without her generous and genius help I may have just given up. And thanks to my wonderful, lovely, brilliant beta, Mazarin221B, for improving my writing immensely.

John watched from the window as the engine approached Baker Street; all he could see was smoke. Thick, grey clouds of it rose through the chill night air and cast a haze over the street. The engine screeched to a halt outside 221, and John swore silently when he saw the source was indeed the second floor flat, the smoke escaping from the open window. As he jumped down from the engine, John caught a glimpse of the older lady from the gas leak incident, only her aubergine dress had been replaced by a flowered dressing gown beneath a faded blue overcoat. She stood with three other women—a diminutive elderly lady with tightly curled grey hair, a tall, statuesque blonde, and a petite brunette—huddled together under the Speedy’s marquee. The blonde had an arm wrapped protectively around the brunette’s thin shoulders, as though to shelter her from the cold.

John watched as Morrison headed toward the women. He wondered where the hell Sherlock could be. John would have to wait for Morrison’s OK before going in—Morrison always insisted on at least two in—and John would never hear the end of it if he went up alone. He attempted to pay attention to Morrison’s conversation with the women but kept getting distracted by visions of a sleeping Sherlock succumbing to smoke inhalation or—even worse—trapped by flames.

John glanced up. He didn’t see any flames—only dark clouds rolling from the open window and the front door. John wondered for a moment if there actually was a fire, though the copious amount of smoke certainly indicated there must be.

John heard a shout from the group standing in front of Speedy’s. He looked over and saw the four women staring up at the second story, their faces a mixture of horror and disbelief. The blue-coated older lady had one hand pressed to her mouth while she pointed with other to the figure that had just appeared at the window.

John recognized the ridiculously long limbs and thin frame before he ever heard the angry voice call out over the siren’s wail, “Mrs. Hudson! I told you everything was fine.”

“Clearly,” John muttered. He motioned for Wilson to cut the siren and moved beneath the open window. “Sherlock,” he yelled, “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

“John! Tell your mates to take their toys and go away. I have the situation under control.”

Under control, right. John shook his head and looked at the group of women standing nearby, their faces indicative of various combinations of concern, annoyance, or interest. And not all the interest was directed at the tall figure leaning out the window, John noticed, nervously running a hand through the hair on the back of his head. One of the younger ones, the blonde, actually winked at him.

Wilson joined John on the pavement. “God knows what that crazy sod was up to.” He jerked his head toward the occupied window. “And that arsehole needs to get the hell down here before he passes out and makes a mess of the pavement.”

John looked up at Sherlock again and squinted. The silvery eyes John had seen in his dreams looked suddenly heavy, and Sherlock swayed faintly. John called up again, “What’s on fire, Sherlock?”

“Nothing. Anymore,” Sherlock answered. He smacked a hand on the window ledge. “I’ve taken care of it. Now I’m just trying to clear all this out.”

John sighed. “Is your front door locked?”

“Of course,” came the answer.

Fucking hell. Of course. At the window, Sherlock’s body lurched sideways for a second then quickly straightened up. Oh, Christ.

John shucked his jacket. He grabbed a length of woven safety cable from the engine. “He’s not going to last another five minutes. Let’s get the ladder as close as we can. I’ll have to get him myself.”

Wilson barked out commands, and the ladder began to move. He looked at John. “You sure you don’t want Morrison to do this?”

John felt a stab in his chest. “What do you mean?”

“No offense, mate, but that bloke’s about six inches taller than you. Morrison’s near his height.”

John cast another worried glance at the window. “I need to do this. It’s safer. I don’t…I don’t think he’ll struggle for me.” This time, at least.

Once the ladder was in place, John wrapped the safety cable around his waist and hooked it to the loop on his belt then said to Wilson, “Get an ambulance just to be safe.”

Wilson nodded and reached for his radio.

John moved to the base of the ladder and climbed the first few rungs. “Sherlock, I’m coming up there. Stay where you are.”

“John, don’t!” Sherlock sounded annoyed, but he slurred John’s name enough that John knew Sherlock was only minutes from collapsing from smoke inhalation.

John shook his head and hurried up the ladder. The bloody idiot might be willing to choke to death on his own stupidity, but John sure as hell wasn’t about to let him do it.

When John reached the top rungs, he coughed and waved at the smoke wafting from inside. He leaned forward and held out a hand to Sherlock. “You’re coming down with me,” John said, his voice deliberately hard and commanding, a useful skill he’d picked up in the Army. “Don’t make me carry you.”

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath. “As if you could.”

John pursed his lips. “I did it once before if you’ll recall. And I can do it again.”

“John—”

“Fuck,” John swore quietly. He leaned as far forward as he could and gripped Sherlock’s arm, caught those strange, verdigris eyes with the his most solemn look. “Don’t you trust me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s expression turned scathing. “Of course I trust you, you imbecile.”

John marveled that the man could be an insulting git even when on the verge of collapse. “Then come with me.”

“Fine.” Sherlock took a breath then moved back inside. A second later, he stuck one long leg out the window and rested it on the rung at the level of John’s chest. Then he flattened himself against the window sash and slid his upper body into the cold night air. His other leg followed, and soon he stood on the ladder, gripping the sides with both hands.

John stepped down a few rungs but kept an arm out to catch Sherlock should he start to fall. Sherlock was barefoot and wearing an ankle-length blue dressing gown, and John worried Sherlock might trip or slip while making his way down the ladder.

The two slowly descended. When John reached the bottom rung, he jumped to the ground and waited for Sherlock, who finally dropped to the pavement and turned to face John. John realized he was standing rather close, so he took a step back, unclipped the safety cable and hooked it to the engine.

Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and pulled him back in. “This really isn’t necessary.” He gestured at the fire engine. “Everything’s fine.” He took a deep breath and began coughing, his hand tightening on John.

“Right.” As the coughing fit subsided, John grasped Sherlock’s face in his hands and turned it, used his thumbs to open Sherlock eyes to check his pupils.

Sherlock caught John’s wrists. “John.”

“What happened, Sherlock?” John asked gently.

“Nothing. A very small fire.” Sherlock looked at John. “I put it out but not before it came into contact with some of my more…flammable chemicals.”

“Flammable chemicals?”

Sherlock released John and tugged his dressing gown closed. He tried to look away, but John kept his hold on Sherlock’s face. “I have a bit of a lab in the flat. You saw some of it during your last visit.” At John’s disapproving expression, Sherlock huffed. “It’s essential to my work.”

John sighed and rubbed his thumbs along Sherlock’s ridiculously gorgeous cheekbones. “Now you’re the one covered in soot. You brilliant idiot.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked. “It’s been too long, John.” He sidled closer.

“Is that so?” John frowned as the sudden thought struck him that Sherlock might have set the fire on purpose in order to…to what? Worry John to death? Bring him running to Baker Street?

John let go of Sherlock and stepped back. “Sherlock, you didn’t…Did you…Is this…did you set a fire to get me over here?”

The expression of distaste on Sherlock’s face was almost comical. “No! That’s ludicro—” He paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Actually, that would have been clever. Why didn’t I think of that?”

John’s response was cut off by the ambulance rolling to a stop behind the fire engine. The lights flashed red, giving the smoky scene a strange, macabre air.

When Sherlock saw the ambulance, he shook his head. “No, no. Absolutely not. I’m perfectly fine. I do not need—”

John did the only thing he could think of to quiet Sherlock—he covered Sherlock’s mouth with his palm. “Sherlock. Shut up. And don’t lick me.” John felt the curl of Sherlock’s lips as he smiled despite himself. “You’re going to let the EMTs check you out, and then you’re going to explain to me exactly what happened here. Right now, I need to talk to Morrison. While I’m doing that, you’ll let the paramedics decide whether or not you’re fine.”

Sherlock tapped John’s hand with one long finger.

John removed his hand. “Yes?”

Sherlock moved closer. “Can’t you check me out?”

“I’m not a qualified medical professional.”

“John.” Sherlock’s fingers brushed John’s knuckles. “As a member of the LFB, you’ve received medical training sufficient to determine my general well-being.”

John took a deep breath and licked his lips. “Sherlock.” John’s tone was tightly compressed, and he shuffled closer to Sherlock in an attempt to invade his space in the most intimidating manner possible. “If you don’t walk over to that ambulance right now, so help me I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you. In front of all these people.”

Something hot and bright flared in Sherlock’s eyes as they roved over John’s face. “You keep threatening to sweep me off my feet, John. I wonder when you’ll actually do it.”

John clapped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, spun him around and directed him toward the ambulance’s open doors; he pressed against Sherlock’s back, rose on tiptoe to whisper softly in Sherlock’s ear, “I already have.”

Sherlock tossed an unreadable look over his shoulder, but he allowed John to steer him to the EMTs standing on the pavement next to the ambulance. John grinned when he recognized Hawkins and Bainbridge. He squeezed Sherlock’s arm. “You’re in good hands now.” John nodded to the two men. “Take care of him, lads.”

Bainbridge laughed. “Alright, Watson?”

“I will be when you tell me he’s fine.” John pointed at Sherlock.

“Sure,” said Hawkins.

John leaned toward Sherlock. “I’ll be back.”

“You’d better be.” Sherlock sounded petulant but his lips twitched.

John left Sherlock to get sorted and joined Morrison, who was still talking with the women beneath the marquee. The older lady, the one John assumed to be Sherlock’s landlady, waved her hands as she explained awakening to a house filled with smoke.

“Sorry to interrupt,” John said, “But Sherlock said the fire’s out. He, uh, handled it.” He scratched the back of his neck. “The smoke’s a result of the fire coming into contact with some chemicals he had stored in the flat.”

Morrison frowned. “Dangerous chemicals?”

“No, no.” At least, John hoped not. Surely Sherlock would have said? John shifted his feet. “We need to get the fans out here to clear this smoke, yeah?”

Morrison nodded. “I’ll have Wilson call. Did your friend say what caused the fire in the first place?” Morrison’s emphasis on ‘friend’ was obvious.

John cleared his throat. “Not yet. But he will.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “After he’s seen to. Speaking of which,” he said, smiling at the women, “do any of you ladies need medical attention? Any injuries, any smoke inhalation?”

Sherlock’s landlady patted John’s arm. “No, dear, I think we’re all fine.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the blonde, “I might like a looking over if you’re offering.”

The tiny brunette nudged the blonde with her hip and said in a heavy Spanish accent. “Shh, Preciosa. Behave.”

John covered his mouth to hide his smile. The two women were rather attractive, and if he didn’t have a gorgeous, maddening consulting detective waiting for him, he might have…but, no. He really preferred to get back to Sherlock.

“Sorry,” John told the blonde, “but I’m just the messenger.” He looked at Morrison. “If you don’t need me here, I’m going to—” He tipped his head in the direction of the ambulance.

Morrison sighed heavily. “Yeah, all right, yeah. See if you can get some answers out of him.”

John nodded and turned with a wave at the women then made his way back to Sherlock, who sat on the back of the ambulance wrapped in an orange blanket. His face had been wiped clean of soot, and he had an oxygen cannula dangling round his neck. The git probably took it off as soon as the paramedics turned their backs.

When Sherlock saw John, he scowled. “This blanket. Why do they keep putting this blanket on me?”

“It’s for shock.”

“I’m not in shock.”

“No?” John asked, moving closer. “Would you like to be?”

Sherlock straightened his shoulders and leaned toward John. “And what would you do to shock me, John Watson?”

John took a deep breath. “Tell you I’ll take you up on that dinner invitation if you tell me the truth about what started the fire.”

Sherlock gave John a long, measured look. “That doesn’t shock me,” he finally said. “But it does…please me, so yes, I’ll tell you.”

“Good. Fine.”

Sherlock steepled his hands beneath his chin. “Someone tried to send me a message. Via Molotov cocktail.”

John’s eyes widened. “Somebody firebombed your flat?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Quite inexpertly, I might add. Shoddy work. If I hadn’t been watching over a rather delicate experiment, I would have noticed sooner, but as it was I was distracted, and the rug caught fire, and there were vials of…” He shot a look at John from the corner of his eye. “Chemicals in close proximity.”

John put out a hand to stop Sherlock and said through tight lips and clenched jaw. “Someone tried to kill you, and all you can say is they did a rubbish job of it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It happens occasionally. I have a tendency to make enemies.”

John’s laugh was a little hysterical. “You don’t say.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Jesus, Sherlock. You’re a fucking disaster. You need a keeper.”

Sherlock wrapped his bare feet around one of John’s calves and buried his toes in the rough fabric of John’s turnouts. “Are you volunteering?”

“I am…” John swiped his tongue along his lips. “Not going to answer that.” He put a hand on Sherlock’s knee, slid his palm upward a bit.

“John—”

Sherlock’s words were interrupted by the appearance of the young blonde who had flirted with John earlier. She grinned (knowingly, John thought) and glanced at John’s hand.

“Excuse me,” she said, “I don’t mean to intrude…it’s just, do you think I could get one of those blankets? My wife’s freezing, you see, and I don’t want her to catch cold.”

“Your wife?” John asked blankly.

She gestured toward the brunette. “Yes, my wife.”

Sherlock frowned. “So you’re Mrs. Turner’s married ones.”

She nodded. “And you’re Mrs. Hudson’s genius.”

Sherlock smirked. “Indeed.”

“So about that blanket then.” The woman smiled and turned toward John. “Unless you’d like to keep us both warm.”

“Here.” Sherlock jerked the blanket from his shoulders and shoved it in the woman’s arms. “Goodbye now.”

“Arrivederci, cari miei.” The woman walked away but glanced slyly over her shoulder and blew a kiss at John.

Sherlock tightened his ankles around John’s calf. “What was that?”

John cleared his throat. “It happens occasionally. I have a tendency to make friends.”

Sherlock’s lips thinned. “You don’t say.”

John couldn’t help laughing. “Are you jealous?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No.”

“No?”

Sherlock covered John’s hand still pressed against his thigh. “No. She’s married, and you’re a decent man. And you’re going to dinner with me.”

“Ah, yes.” John nodded. “I seem to remember agreeing to something like that.”

“John.” Sherlock released his grip on John’s leg only to tug John between his knees. “Let’s have dinner now.”

“No.”

“How about dessert then?”

John sucked in a deep breath that shuddered on his exhale. “Sherlock, I’m still on shift. Will be for the next five hours.”

“Hmmph.”

“Watson!” Morrison’s voice rang out over the din of the second crew now setting up the fans. John hadn’t even noticed they’d arrived. “Time to move out,” Morrison said and gestured for John to hurry up.

John waved to indicate he’d heard. He turned back to Sherlock. “Right. Well, it’s been surreal as always, Sherlock.”

Sherlock clenched his knees around John’s hips. “Tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. Meet me here.”

John swallowed. “Yes. OK. Yes.” He moved away from Sherlock and turned to leave but stopped after a few steps and looked over his shoulder. “Try not to die before tomorrow night.”

Sherlock grinned. “You either.”

John smiled and walked away, joining Morrison at fire engine’s passenger door.

“I hope you’ve got something for this report,” Morrison said as John climbed into the engine.

John settled into the seat. “Yeah. Sherlock gave me the details. He, uh, he was apparently the target of an attempted arsonist.”

Morrison’s eyebrows went up. “Somebody tried to kill him?”

“Mhmm.”

Morrison shifted to make room for the others piling in. “Can’t say I blame them. He’s a right pain in the arse.”

“I know,” John said. But he was smiling.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date, a date, a very important date!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, it's Chapter 5! I apologize profusely for the interminably long time between updates, and I shall endeavor in future to do better. I thank all my readers for being so patient and kind. Special thanks go to valeria2067, without whom this chapter may have never been written, and mazarin221b, whose instincts are never wrong and who is the best beta EVER. All my love and gratitude!

John tugged the collar of his jacket and reached for 221b’s doorknocker. He rapped twice and waited, listening carefully for the sound of footsteps, and tried not to let the skip of his pulse distract him. This was just dinner. Nothing more, nothing less. No need to be nervous, no need for the trickle of sweat that rolled down his nape despite the chill in the air. John shook his head and clasped his hands together behind his back, straightened his spine and shoulders. Christ, he’d been to dinner with loads of people—John had been only half joking when he’d told Sherlock he had a tendency to ‘make friends’. Of course, none of those friends had been an arrogant, irritating, bloody gorgeous wanker that made John simultaneously want to throttle said wanker and kiss him senseless.

Kissing. Oh God. 

Kissing Sherlock. 

John shut his eyes and let the strange mix of dread and desire wash through him. He imagined kissing Sherlock would be like…like flame-licked heels and scorched lungs.

Kissing Sherlock would be bloody brilliant.

“Dear, are you all right?”

John jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock's landlady stood in the doorway, a kindly smile accompanying the open curiosity in her eyes.

“Ah, yes. Sorry. Distracted.” John searched his addled brain for the woman's name. “Mrs. Hudson?”

She clapped her hands together. “You remember. And you're Sherlock's young man—John, isn't it? The fireman.” Mrs. Hudson sounded oddly proud.

“Umm.” John thought about correcting her assumption that he was Sherlock's “young man” but decided it really wasn't worth the explanation. Instead, he held out his hand. “John Watson,” he said.

She took his hand in both of hers and squeezed it warmly. “So pleased to finally meet you properly, dear. We haven't had a chance to chat what with the mishaps the last few times.” Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Our Sherlock is a gem, but he does have a tendency to kick up a row. Why, I thought for certain last night he might finally manage to burn the whole place to the ground.”

John scratched the back of his neck. “Yes, he does live a rather exciting life. I suppose that can't make your life very easy.”

“No, it doesn't.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “But he's a good boy, our Sherlock. Just a bit...”

“A bit?” John asked.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and patted John's arm. “Temperamental. And too curious for his own good.”

“It is impossible to be too curious, Mrs. Hudson,” said a familiar voice from behind John.

John felt warmth and pressure at the small of his back. He spun away from the front door to find Sherlock standing behind him on the bottom step, his expression amused. John blinked and gave his best effort to ignoring the heat from Sherlock’s gloved hand. “Sherlock.”

“Good evening, John.”

Sherlock's thumb stroked softly along John’s spine, and he felt it even through layers of shirt, jumper, and jacket. He wanted to lean back into that steady press, but he shifted and looked at Mrs. Hudson, who watched them with laughing eyes and a fond smile.

Mrs. Hudson patted John's shoulder. “Very nice meeting you, John.” She gave a jaunty wave and moved to close the door. “Have a lovely evening, boys.”

“Ah, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock caught the door. “Would you be so kind as to deposit this upstairs for me?” He reached behind him and lifted a small, shockingly pink carry-on onto the step. “Just put it in the sitting room.”

Mrs. Hudson’s expression was curious, but she said only, “All right, dear,” picked up the suitcase, and carted it inside.

When Mrs. Hudson shut the door, John looked at Sherlock questioningly. “Wouldn’t have thought pink was your color.”

“It’s not,” Sherlock answered shortly.

“Not going to explain, then?”

Sherlock cocked his head, considering. “Perhaps later. At present, it’s irrelevant.”

“Right.” John shook his head.

Sherlock gave John a long, searching look. “What are you thinking, John?”

John swallowed. “You mean you can’t tell by way I’ve buttoned my shirt or something? You’re slipping, Sherlock.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock moved closer, and John backed into the door. “I’d rather you tell me.”

John looked up at Sherlock, let his eyes roam over the chiseled, deceptively angelic face until his gaze came to rest on Sherlock’s ridiculously lush mouth. Really, how could a man have lips like that? “Hungry,” John croaked. He cleared his throat. “I’m starving. Shall we?” He slid past Sherlock and stepped down onto the street.

With a hint of a smile lurking, Sherlock slipped his hands in his pockets and stepped down next to John. “Italian?” he asked as he began walking.

John shoved his own hands in the pockets of his jacket and fell into step with Sherlock. “Italian's good.”

“There's a place called Angelo's about five minutes’ walk from here.”

"All right." John glanced at Sherlock, who stared ahead thoughtfully. John shifted but kept silent.

"I do wonder where your mind was," Sherlock finally said.

"What?"

Sherlock looked at John. "Took Mrs. Hudson three attempts to catch your attention."

John frowned. "How do you know that? Is it--" He gestured aimlessly. "Part of that thing you do? When you work things out about people by putting together all the little details you observe?"

Sherlock stopped suddenly. His gaze was sharp and bright, edged with a strange mixture of intrigued surprise and appreciation. "How did you know that's what I do?"

John shrugged. "When we first met, you said you help the Yard solve crimes by observing. Also, you're clever and quite keen. You're constantly looking, soaking up details. God, I can see it in your eyes even now. What it must be like in that brain of yours." He laughed softly. "Fantastic."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Yes, well." He turned and resumed walking. "Actually," he said, smiling, "I was watching from across the street."

John pursed his lips to hide a grin. "You're a git."

Sherlock's smile broadened. "So you keep saying."

John leaned into Sherlock to avoid a passerby carrying an overlarge bag, and their arms brushed. "Well," John said, "I'll stop calling you a git when you stop being a git." John nodded, tilting a look a Sherlock. "So, never."

"Now, John," Sherlock said, sliding a gloved hand from his pocket and into the crook of John's arm and steering him forward. "If all goes according to plan this evening, the names you'll be calling me will be of a much more flattering—and intimate—nature."

“Is that supposed to be innuendo?” John asked, amused disbelief coloring his tone.

One imperious eyebrow raised, Sherlock glanced at John. “I thought it was perfectly straightforward.”

“So, what,” John said, “You think you're going to wine and dine me then talk me into bed?”

Sherlock's lips quirked. “Is that all it would take? Talking?” He slowed his pace and pressed against John's side. “Hmmm. I have noticed your...fascination with my voice, and I must say I've constructed quite a few interesting scenarios predicated on the rather intoxicating idea of—”

“Sherlock,” John cut in. He shook his head. The man talked like he swallowed a thesaurus and still sounded bloody sexy. “Shut up.”

Sherlock's expression was half amusement and half indignation. “Why?”

John stopped walking and tugged Sherlock to the side, from the path of pedestrian traffic. “Because if you don't, you're going to make me—”

“Make you what, John?” Sherlock's eyes flickered as he dipped his head toward John.

John snaked his tongue over his lips. “Kiss you in the middle of the street,” he said, voice low and darkly soft.

“You wouldn't.” Sherlock's tone was matter-of-fact, but John heard the questioning thread at its base.

John took his hands from his pockets and fisted the sides of Sherlock's coat. “Is that a challenge?”

Sherlock's eyes brightened, fell to gaze at John's lips. “It's a fact.”

“A fact,” John mused. He rubbed his thumbs along the rough wool beneath his palms. “Do you think so?”

Sherlock raised his gloved hands and grasped John's biceps, long fingers pressing into the muscles. “I know.”

“Well.” John moved forward, tightened his grip on Sherlock's coat, and pulled him down until their lips were barely pressed together. “Just goes to show you don't know everything.”

John shut his eyes and leaned in, felt Sherlock’s hot, shuddering exhale as their lips brushed before a sudden, sharp pain exploded from the back of John’s head. He stumbled and felt the scrape of brick against his scalp, and there was the press of Sherlock’s entire body against his, Sherlock’s breath at his ear murmuring, “Are you all right?” and then nothing but cold air where Sherlock’s warmth had been. 

John opened his eyes to find Sherlock stalking up the sidewalk, eyes narrowed and searching. He paused for a moment, his penetrating gaze sweeping the street and the pedestrians, before he returned to John’s side.

“Someone shoved me.” Sherlock sounded both curious and offended. He caught the tip of a gloved finger between his teeth and tugged, removing his hand, then slid his hand into John’s hair to probe gently at John’s head. “You’re going to have quite a knot there, I’m afraid.”

John winced. “Yeah.” He reached up and captured Sherlock’s hand, brought it down and curled their fingers together. He laughed. “You know, I figured the first time I kissed you I’d see stars, but that wasn’t exactly how I imagined it.”

Sherlock’s huff sounded surprised and amused. “Going for the obvious joke, John? That’s beneath you.” He tightened his grip on John’s hand, and the corners of his lips ticked up slightly.

“Yeah, well, I’m an obvious sort of guy.” John laughed again. “And I’m also starving, so let’s get to—Angelo’s, was it?—before I sustain any further injuries.” He began walking, and Sherlock followed, still clasping John’s hand.

After a few minutes, Sherlock tugged John inside a small, quaintly decorated Italian restaurant, where Sherlock greeted the host—whose name was Billy, John noted—as if they were old friends and followed Billy to a table next to the front window. When Billy left, a tall, bearded man, whom Sherlock introduced as Angelo, swept over and slapped his large, meaty hand on Sherlock’s back before handing over menus. Angelo’s gravelly voice was warm and effusive as he explained to John how Sherlock had cleared his name a few years back, though Sherlock interrupted to clarify a few of the details. 

“Whatever you want, Sherlock, on the house,” Angelo said, grinning. “For you and your date.” He glanced around. “And I’ll get a candle for the table. It’s more romantic.”

As Angelo ambled away, John shucked his jacked and settled back in the booth, twiddling the menu open without looking at its contents. “So,” he said, keeping his tone light, “bring a lot of dates here, do you?”

After removing his gloves and scarf, Sherlock shrugged his coat from his shoulders and folded it on the seat between them. “Don’t have many dates, actually,” he answered as he picked up his own menu and thumbed through it.

“Really? No boyfriends, then? Or girlfriends?”

Sherlock gave John a scornful look. “Girlfriends, no. Not really my area.”

“Oh, right.” John nodded. “Boyfriends?”

Sherlock raised his menu, seemingly studying it, before he answered, “I consider myself married to my work.”

John leaned forward “So, what’s this, then, hmm?”

“What about you, John?” Sherlock closed the menu and dropped it on the table. “How often do you find yourself on dates with men you've rescued from the jaws of death? Or do you prefer to rescue women?”

John sat back and put his own menu on the table. “I consider myself an equal-opportunity rescuer, Sherlock.”

Just then, Angelo reappeared, brandishing the promised candle. He set it down and grinned. “I’ll send someone over to get your order. Remember, anything you want.”

John stared into the tiny flickering flame as Sherlock waited for Angelo to move out of earshot. When Sherlock cleared his throat, John glanced up to find Sherlock watching him, those cold, calculating eyes measuring and weighing.

“And you get a lot of these opportunities, I imagine? You tend to make friends?” Sherlock asked, tone only slightly mocking.

John straightened the cuffs of his shirt and thought about how to answer the question diplomatically. “Well,” he said, “A fair few. And, yes, I do tend to make friends. I think I mentioned that last night.”

Sherlock nodded. “Indeed.” He tilted his head, considering. “You’re a serial dater, John. At least, you were before you were deployed to Afghanistan but not since you returned.”

“And you know that how?”

Sherlock leaned in and braced his elbows on the table. “You have an easy affability about you—open, friendly—but you’re also calm and steady, trustworthy. Such trustworthiness is useful in your line of work, which, of course, is both dangerous and exciting, something women—and men—would find thrilling and admirable. Not to mention your job indicates you care about people. And…ex-army.” He gestured vaguely and frowned. “So many people love all that Queen-and-country rubbish. Plus, you’re attractive without being intimidatingly so, and you have a natural confidence that’s a result of being comfortable with yourself, with who you are. All extremely desirable traits in a mate, which is why you, as you put it, ‘make friends’ easily. Simple to extrapolate you had no dearth of dates.”

John pursed his lips and drew in a deep breath. “That is…amazing. And, thank you, I think.” He folded his arms on the table. “But how do you know I haven’t dated much since I got back from Afghanistan?”

“You’ve been working overtime whenever you can, taking others’ rotations. I can tell by your eyes—tired, bloodshot from the smoke exposure. You show up to calls when you aren’t on shift. You’re an adrenaline junkie, John, and a workaholic; I told you the second time we met.” Sherlock steepled his hands and watched John for a moment. “Why now, though? Why take advantage of this opportunity?”

John swiped his tongue over his bottom lip. “You mean you don’t know? You can’t deduce it?” 

“I want to hear you say it.” Sherlock’s voice was low and laced with challenge.

John stared at Sherlock, into those verdigris eyes that burned and seemed to bore into John’s mind. He opened his mouth to speak once, twice, before he licked his lips again and said, “What about you, Sherlock? If you’re married to your work, what are you doing here?”

“You know what I’m doing here, John.” Sherlock’s gaze slid away to focus on the front window. 

“But I want to hear you say it,” John shot back.

Sherlock was quiet for so long, John wondered if he would ever get an answer to his last question. When the silence had stretched what must have been a full three minutes, John shifted in his seat. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock let his hands fall to the table, and he quirked an eyebrow. “What? Oh.” 

“So,” John said and reclined against the back of the booth. “Where do we go from here?”

Sherlock leaned forward and put his hand on John’s shoulder, nodded at something out the window. “Across the street. Next to the postbox.”

John turned to look but saw only a scrawny man in a ragged hoodie leaning against the opening of a dark, narrow alleyway. When he turned back to Sherlock, he smirked. “That's a bit public, even for me.”

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. “No, the man who shoved me earlier—that’s him. He's still watching us.” He paused, eyes flashing, then he tilted his head and stared at John. “What do you mean even for you?”

John started to twist in his seat but Sherlock stopped him. “What man?” John asked. “‘Still’ watching us?”

Sherlock seized his coat and shoved his arms in the sleeves. “Someone's been tracking my movements for a few days. Quite poorly, too, I might add.” He slipped his scarf round his neck and tied it in a complicated knot. “I thought the firebomb would be the last of it. Get your jacket.”

John huffed. “Does this happen to you often? People following you? Spying on you? Trying to kill you?” He grabbed his jacket and pulled it on as he stood to follow Sherlock.

“Only in a good week. Come on!” Sherlock tugged John’s sleeve, leading him out the door and onto the mostly empty sidewalk. 

John waited while Sherlock conducted a quick scan of the opposite street. The man near the postbox was gone, and John saw no trace of him in either direction, but Sherlock must have noticed something because he motioned for John to follow him across the intersection. As Sherlock pushed through the few people strolling along, John apologized in his wake. 

“There.” Sherlock pointed ahead just as the man disappeared around the corner. He broke into a run, and John had no choice but trail after him. 

It took only moments to catch up enough that they could keep the man in their sights despite the now heavy foot traffic. John ran full pelt after Sherlock as he picked up speed. John saw nothing but Sherlock’s back, coattails billowing dramatically behind him, and flashes of confused or annoyed faces, and the occasional building façade, as they rushed round the corner and down a deserted alley. Though John was unable to catch sight of the man they chased, Sherlock seemed capable of keeping a bead on him, and John followed blindly as Sherlock led him inside a door at the end of the alley and up a circular staircase onto the roof.

“What the hell?” John gasped, “Sherlock!”

“Come on, John, this way!” Sherlock dashed forward, and John watched as he leapt across the five or so feet to the roof of the next building.

John jogged to the roof’s edge and skidded to a halt. The distance between the rooftops wasn’t that far, but the ground was. He shook his head and jumped, landing with a bone-thudding jar, but had no time to collect himself as he saw Sherlock hurrying down the fire escape. John took off after him

John kept his eyes trained on Sherlock as they ran, John’s heavy exhales clouding the air as his breath rushed in and out and his blood thrummed, his pulse a rapid tattoo beating a rhythm he felt in his bones. A wave of euphoria washed through him, and he picked up the pace until he and Sherlock were running side by side.

Sherlock veered to the right into a darker, smaller alley, and John saw the man they were chasing just ahead. He watched as Sherlock reached out one long arm and caught the man’s hood, jerking him backward. Sherlock spun gracefully and slammed the man against the brick building, but John’s forward momentum had him stumbling and crashing into Sherlock, who caught John with one hand while still holding the man captive.

“Sorry, sorry,” John panted. He eased from Sherlock’s grasp and bent double, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

“All right?” Sherlock asked. The bastard was barely winded.

John waved a hand in what he meant to be an ‘I’m fine’ gesture, but he fell back against the opposite building and sucked down as much air as he could. He watched as Sherlock returned his attention to the man he still clasped by the collar.

“Who sent you?” Sherlock clutched the man’s hoodie even tighter, lifting him onto his toes.

“Oi!” the man choked out. 

“Sherlock,” John said and pushed away from the building, “Sherlock, he can’t breathe.”

Sherlock loosened his grip. “What do you want from me?”

The man swallowed nervously, and John saw that he was just a kid, probably eighteen or nineteen. “I want in,” he said, voice full of false bravado.

Sherlock looked confused. “In? In where?”

“Wi-with you. Your organization.” 

“My organiza—Oh.”

John stepped forward. “What’s he talking about, Sherlock?”

The man licked his lips. “I hear you pay for information.”

Sherlock looked at John. “I have a network, I suppose you could call it. People who gather…data for me. Homeless network.”

“Right.” John nodded slowly. “So, you scratch their backs—”

“And then I disinfect myself.” Sherlock turned back to the man. "I invest. In reliable sources."

“Um, right. I wanna be a source, then.”

Sherlock smirked. “And you think you'd be useful, do you? Knocking people over on the street? Lurking so obviously that they'd call the police within ten minutes?”

“I-I didn't mean to—” 

The man tried to wrest himself from Sherlock’s grip, but Sherlock knocked him against the wall. Sherlock’s voice was low and deadly when he said, “My work isn't a child's game! It's dangerous. Do you understand?”

The man’s eyes widened but he straightened his shoulders. “Yeah, yeah, I just wanted to make a little extra money, a'right?”

Sherlock finally let go and shoved the man backward. “Oh, for God's sake!”

“Hey! Watch it!” The man jumped and slid sideways when Sherlock lunged for him, but John blocked the man’s path. Recognizing he was trapped, he glanced down and picked at his sleeve. “So, are you gonna cut me in or not?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and swept the man with a critical gaze. “Cut you in? No. You'd be in jail—like your father, I see—within a week. And no use to me at all.”

“Oi, don't be talking shite about me dad!” The man sprang toward Sherlock, but Sherlock caught him by the throat, long, white fingers wrapping and pressing, clearly cutting off the man’s air. He sputtered and grabbed at Sherlock’s hand.

“That’s enough. That’s enough!” John stepped between Sherlock and the man and reached to pry Sherlock’s hand away. “He’s just a stupid kid, Sherlock. Let him go.”

“Hey, what are you lot doin’ down there?” a rough voice called from the mouth of the alley.

John looked over to see two uniformed policemen heading toward them. Sherlock caught John’s eye as he released the man, who faltered as he scurried to get away.

“Got your breath back?” Sherlock asked.

John smiled. “Ready when you are.”

Once more, they were off into the night, running full tilt through the narrow passages between buildings. John drank in mouthfuls of air as he followed Sherlock, heart thumping and adrenaline coursing through his veins. They ran for what felt like ages, but John reckoned it was only a mile or so, until they reached the front door of 221 Baker Street. 

Sherlock flung the door open, stripped off his coat and scarf, and hung them on the banister at the bottom of the stairs before collapsing against the faded wallpaper, breathing hard.

John leaned against the wall, as well, and said breathlessly, “That was ridiculous. The most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

Sherlock looked at John. “And you invaded Afghanistan.”

John smiled. “That wasn’t just me.” He felt his smile broaden to a grin, and then…then he was giggling.

Sherlock chuckled, and soon, they were both laughing—John bent over with his hands braced on his knees, Sherlock with one pale, delicate-looking hand over his stomach. 

Still sniggering, John straightened and glanced at Sherlock, who was watching him with a wide grin. “So, this is what you do, then?”

Sherlock stopped laughing and nodded, quicksilver eyes never leaving John’s.

“Right.” John pushed off the wall and turned to Sherlock, crowding against him, slapping one palm on the wall at Sherlock’s shoulder and sliding the other into Sherlock’s dark curls, pulling him down until their faces were level, their lips only centimeters apart. “Dangerous,” John whispered and then captured Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock groaned and slipped his arms around John, caught John’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugged until John opened his mouth for Sherlock’s questing tongue. John licked into Sherlock’s mouth, taking control of the kiss, pressing himself more firmly against Sherlock. John moved his hand from the wall to Sherlock’s hip and squeezed, maneuvered a leg between Sherlock’s thighs, and Sherlock surged against him.

Sherlock broke the kiss. “Fuck. John,” he bit out before seizing John’s lips again.

“Yes, God, yes,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s mouth. John felt desperate and dizzy and fucking wonderful, and he wanted nothing more than to devour this maddening man who looked like an angel and kissed like sin.

A shocked gasp from behind them was followed by a tearful, “Sherlock!”

Both John and Sherlock looked up, and John stepped back, but Sherlock kept hold of him. Mrs. Hudson stood in the foyer, a trembling hand over her mouth.

“Sherlock,” she said again. “What have you done?”

“Mrs. Hudson?” John could hear the concern in Sherlock’s tone.

Mrs. Hudson pointed to the second floor. “Upstairs.” 

Sherlock looked at John, finally let him go, then turned to thunder upstairs. John followed silently, wondering just what the hell Sherlock had done now.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * ["Paid"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/329045) by [Valeria2067](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067)




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